


Day

by neichan



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Adult Content, Alternate Universe, Challenge Response, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-06
Updated: 2007-03-06
Packaged: 2019-02-05 16:46:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12798426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neichan/pseuds/neichan
Summary: None





	1. Chapter 1  Day One

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Haven, the archivist: This story was originally archived at [Fandom Haven Story Archive (FHSA)](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Fandom_Haven_Story_Archive), was scheduled to shut down at the end of 2016. To preserve the archive, I began working with the OTW to transfer the stories to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2017. If you are this creator and the work hasn't transferred to your AO3 account, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Fandom Haven Story Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/fhsa/profile).

  
Author's notes: First days can be hell.  


* * *

Dr. George Huang crouched down low, wedging himself behind the heavy, scarred, wood and metal desk in the Special Victims Unit bullpen, wishing the desk was twice as large, contained a few tons of metal, titanium preferred, and that he was just about any where that wasn't ~here~.

 

Dozens of bullets had been fired, maybe a hundred. At least. Buzzing like angry bees all around him. The number could actually be twice that and he wouldn't know. It had been automatic fire, fast and sharp, a terrifying ripping sound once it got going. And the screaming and shouting. Chaos.

 

He'd dropped to his hands and knees less than one second after his mind interpreted the staccato pops as gunfire. Scrambling behind the desk took no time at all. The thought was in his mind and the next instant he was there, like magic. A symptom of adrenaline he knew. Time moving faster or slower than it should. Perception widening or narrowing.....pupils dilating, hands sweating, heart pumping, the urge to empty bowels and bladder....

 

Now he was getting stiff, and cramped in his little, far too little, safe zone, and he had to pee really bad. Welcome to your new job, Doctor Huang, he thought grimly, clenching and unclenching his tremoring, pale fingers. Shutting off excess blood flow to the periphery, he registered the signs of adrenaline excess. His body was preparing for fight or flight. He only wished there was some where it was safe to run to. He was brand spanking new to the building, to this floor, he had no notion of which doors led to a closet, and which to a room, and which to a stairwell and freedom.

 

If he was a little less socialized he'd be able to rationalize that in the scope of the disaster he found himself in...his continence, or loss of it, didn't mean much, he might as well just wet his pants, like the prostitute who had been being questioned by one of the detectives when the shooting broke out. She'd wet herself long ago, the stain vivid across her tight skirt, the scent acrid in the stagnant air, mixing with the smell of guns being fired. And she'd felt no need to apologize for it.

 

He heard the detectives shouting out to each other and to the man who'd walked calmly into the squad room and started firing. George Huang had no idea who the man was, but he seemed to be skilled enough, or lucky enough, to have chosen an impregnable spot to fire from. No one had managed to take him out yet.

 

He could hear the detectives talking to each other, short cryptic phrases, mostly drowned out by the prostitute's shrill, agitated demands to be protected, to have the cuffs removed, and to be taken out of here, "god damn it".

 

Huang hadn't had time to be introduced to more than Captain Cragen after reporting to work for his first day consulting. He hoped no one would shoot him by mistake if they didn't recognize him.

 

SVU was one of the divisions that needed a psychologist or a psychiatrist on the job full time. They dealt with crimes that had huge emotional impact on the victims and on their families. The offenders were often serial offenders, and insight into their thought processes and behavioral traits was also helpful. He saw the position listed a few months back and found it interesting. And...here he was. His first day...and maybe his last.

 

He checked his watch as no bullets had been fired for at least several minutes. A quarter of an hour ago he'd stepped into Captain Don Cragen's office. He'd been here only fifteen minutes. And now he was suddenly closer to being shot than he'd ever been in his life. Closer to death, deliberate, or due to a stray round. He wasn't sure it would matter all that much. A bullet that killed you...was a bullet that killed you.

 

His heart thudded in his chest. He wiped his damp palms on his shirt.

 

He very nearly had a heart attack and came close to wetting himself again when he became aware he was not alone any longer behind his sheltering fraction of furniture. He was proud of himself for not screaming out loud. It came out as a sigh, no power behind it, he shook, trembling, right down to the marrow of his bones.

 

The man was bigger than he was, but so were most non-Asian men, dressed in black head to toe, helmeted, visor-ed, wearing bulletproof armor, and moved silently, his dark eyes flat and cold. He held a huge gun. Long, it's finish a dull matte black. Automatic rifle? George Huang read the four letters on the man's pocket, saw them far larger on his back when the man eased around like a ghost until he was in front of him. SWAT. SGT. Rodriguez.

 

There was little room, and George was flattened against the desk by the bulk of the other man, a deliberate action to prevent him from moving. The man held a finger to his own lips, cautioning silence. He tried to look around the desk, drawing back hastily when a flurry of shots whizzed their way. George was slammed into the floor, the SWAT Officer covering him with his own body, refraining from sending off his own shot. He was heavy, solid, immovable, it was hard to breathe.

 

And there was no hope of his lifting up. The big man held him down. Keeping as much of George's body shielded as was possible. Then slowly, the minutes passed, the weight on his back becoming harder and harder to bear. Just before he thought he wasn't going to be able to take it a second longer, it eased up. Air rushed into his chest unimpeded.

 

As the weight lifted off, a gloved hand came down on the top of his head gently, turning his face up, so their eyes met. "Behind me. Move when I move. Stop when I stop. My body is your shield. Lose it and you die." The mouth told him in a near silent whisper. It raised the hair on the back of his neck, because the man meant each and every word. If the sniper fired...the Officer would take the bullet, hopefully in his armor. Not George. Then he was being pushed back, scuttling as quietly as he could on his hands and knees backwards.

 

George Huang wondered, why the look, all of five seconds, seemed to be the most significant look he'd ever shared with another human being. The eyes hadn't been cold, they'd warmed, like a father's eyes, a brother's, a husband's, a protector's....he recognized more symptoms of adrenaline and the ordeal, with the way his thoughts were flying.

 

The hand on his stomach, the fist clenched in the belt of his pants that directed him, it was firm. It was strong, about as big as both of his own hands together. And it was the most welcome touch he could remember. It was taking him to safety. Down a hallway he hadn't known was there. Where other hands grabbed him, pulled him in. As Rodriguez followed him in, another black suited man headed out, soundless, deadly.

 

George Huang sat on the bench they pushed him to, put his head in his hands and gave in to the shaking. He couldn't hold the glass of water they offered without spilling it. He gulped at it. He was shaking so hard he couldn't get up, couldn't stand, or move on his own. And he still needed to piss.

 

George tried to get up. Heads turned. A hand reached out, gloved. Rifle slung, barrel down over one shoulder. Helmet off, hair short, spiky, dark brown, face younger than George had expected, maybe thirty, concerned, and about a foot higher than his own as he staggered to his feet before falling back to the bench.

 

"Hey. Sit still. What's your name?" SGT Rodriguez asked him. In that special, calm voice he'd used himself to talk people away from the edge, literal and figurative edges...

 

"George." He was surprised at how small his voice sounded. Wispy. Afraid. The Officer stepped nearer, offering his size as a comfort, reassurance, George knew the technique, even if he couldn't use it often himself. Couldn't because of his small stature.

 

"Restroom." He managed to get out. If he wet himself here in front of these people... "Please..."

 

The man nodded. Took his arm, lifted him to his wobbly feet, his legs not willing to hold his full weight. Guided him out of the room, carrying him as much as showing him the way, down some stairs, through throngs of people, and into an empty rest room.

 

Where he proceded to help a shell-shocked and mortified George Huang use the bathroom like he was a child again.


	2. Chapter 2  Day Two

  
Author's notes: Second impressions.  


* * *

The group therapy session was as close to a disaster as any therapy session George Huang had ever participated in, and that included his student intern days. Days that had been filled with experiences best forgotten.

 

He smiled at a particularly horrible memory, his first attempt at therapeutic communication. Amid a group of his peers, trying to run a mock counseling session for his final evaluation, with no one cooperating. He'd begun to realize that day, that at least half of his fellow interns were studying psychiatry because they needed therapy, themselves. An observation he wisely didn't share with them. What a disaster that had been. But...no worse than today. Definitely no worse than today.

 

It was hard to tell if the reason this group session wasn't working was the therapist, Dr. Kent Michaels, a tall handsome, authoritative blond man, who didn't know what he was doing, or the group was dead set on not getting anything out of the session. They sat mulishly, impatiently silent. Face after face wore a mask of sullen, dogged resistance. To this group, the therapist was the enemy. They would have rather faced the gunman again.

 

George was aware that the macho world of police and firemen weren't very open to counseling. Seeing it as an invasion, an attempt by the administration to delve into things they had no business knowing, to force them to admit they had feelings and fears Information that would be used against them in the future. They had an overwhelming distrust, a certainty that if anything came out, if they let anything slip it would come back to bite them on the ass, confidentiality or not.

 

The police psychologist heading this group was confrontational, the further into the group's time, the more aggressive he was, the detectives reluctant, recalcitrant, and essentially mute aside from grunts and growls for the last half of the meeting. It was, in a word, excruciating to endure.

 

The entire encounter lacked any sign of rapport that Huang could find, even with his professional eye peeled for the dimmest hope. The therapist was invasive, skirting the edge of ethics, bringing up or hinting at personal experiences that had not been brought up by the group participants. An ongoing divorce, an old painful one, a past shooting, a strained parental relationship, clearly information gleaned from other encounters or outside sources, being used to confront and jolt a few of the detectives. A not so subtle blackmail.

 

George Huang left the room after the conclusion with a sigh of profound relief, one of the first to exit, unwilling to chance being caught up in a comradely discussion with the man who was supposed to be providing stress debriefing counseling services to the officers and other members of SVU. A man who in his opinion shouldn't be allowed within a city block of anyone needing psychological help.

 

His second day in the unit was not starting much better than the first, though at least today there weren't any bullets to dodge, just a hostilely charged atmosphere as the room emptied. He headed back towards the cramped office that was being assigned to him, determined to set things to rights, as much as was possible and get on with his day.

 

With long practice he pointed out the positives of the situation as he walked. He'd learned the names of the other members of the team he'd be working with. One good point. He couldn't think of a second. Well, he could conclude that seeing how the officers he was going to work with reacted to stress might be useful, but in this context he couldn't call it a positive.

 

He sighed moving through the close packed desks, crowded just now with the detectives busily looking through files, checking information online, and using at least a dozen phones to reconnect with the outer world. Generally looking far happier in the chaos than they had sitting in the conference room. There was no sign of upset, no sign of the ominous, glowering men and women who had sat in group with him only a few minutes before.

 

George Huang made it to his office, just off the edge of the floor that was bustling with activity. Voices, cajoling, angry, demanding, friendly, wheedling filtered into his space without any decrease in volume, not hindered at all by the door. With the door shut he felt definitely claustrophobic, and as it failed to reduce the clamor at all, open or shut, he propped it open and lifted the box he'd packed onto the elderly surface of the gouged and graffiti marred desk. That disfigurement, a chronic condition in police stations everywhere, was anticipated, he put a large, green blotter on top of the desk, covering most of the marks.

 

A phone, more modern than he expected, had been added since his early morning visit with Captain Cragen. Half a dozen private lines and four departmental lines, all blinking. It lit up like the command center of a nuclear submarine when he lifted the receiver, messages scrolling across the top of the small screen. Nothing specifically for him. He re-cradled the receiver.

 

It took about half an hour for him to set up the rest of his things, books on the shelf, a low-light loving Ox-heart Philodendron on top of his file cabinet, heart shaped leaves cascading down the scratched metal sides. A Rolodex on one corner of his desk, paper, pens, and lap top. Issued by the department, heavy and durable, one spot shallowly dented. He got on his hands and knees to find the power socket for the charging cord. It was a bit dusty down there, with a few respectable dust bunnies, but not as bad as he expected.

 

A knock on the door frame diverted his attention as he arrived in the crawl space under his desk, reaching for the plug and inserting it, and he popped up from behind the desk, brushing off the knees of his pants. He looked up and his welcoming smile froze.

 

A man stood in the doorway, tall, and strongly built, shoulders filling his shirt impressively, his pectoral muscles rounded against the front, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, his muscular forearms corded, a faded tattoo, the Marine's anchor and eagle, graced one lightly tanned arm. He smiled, and George Huang felt the breath stop in his chest, then restart, thumping erratically.

 

The impact of the man was stunning, and an almost electric current seemed to fill the space between them. He had been in the group therapy, but George had only seen him in profile, or the back of his head, as he slouched resentfully in his chair next to his female partner during the therapist's harangue. He had not had the full, directed, undivided attention of the man. A man who was used to interrogating unwilling suspects. Forcing them into sharing information they'd rather not. Nor had he seen those incredible, intent, dusky blue eyes. Eyes that were fixed in him, surrounded by dark, straight lashes. Like twin lasers.

 

"Hey," the man said, looking concerned, coming into the room. Absently George noted his hairline was receding, but even that didn't subtract from the man. "You want coffee? A danish? Captain is buying." He stepped further inside. "You alright? I didn't mean to startle you. Detective Elliot Stabler." He held out his hand. "I should've known better after yesterday. Everyone is a little jumpy. Come on, take a seat." He looked anything but jumpy. Calm and reassuring.

 

He helped George into the moderately padded chair. It was too high for him, his toes barely touching the floor.

 

"Chair's too high." The man noted out loud, just as Huang was thinking it. "Better have the captain put in a new rec. Or I'll scrounge up a stool for you. Might take a while to get the right chair." He smiled again. George felt another asynchronous run of arrhythmic heart beats flutter in his chest.

 

If the man wanted to think this was a reaction to being startled in his office after being caught in a shooting gallery yesterday, George was ready to let him.

 

It was better than him finding out that the new psychiatrist joining the SVU had discovered an instantaneous, burning attraction to the man, who judging from the worn gold ring on his finger, was someone's husband and had been for a very long time.

 

"Tea," George croaked out. "I'd like some herbal tea." Inwardly rolling his eyes as his voice came out like an adolescent's in the midst of changing.

 

"George Huang." He said a second later, after clearing his throat. "And I am the SVU's new psychiatrist." The man, one hip propped on the corner of George's desk, put out a hand again, nodding. Not one to waste an opportunity, George shook his hand again. And made no objection when the handshake didn't end immediately as would have been socially appropriate.

 

In fact he sat in the chair, with the serious faced man holding his hand for nearly a full minute before a second detective, the woman, Olivia Benson appeared. She looked curiously at their joined hands.

 

"Come on, Elliot," she said, her dark gaze on her partner asking silent questions. "We've been elected to make the coffee run. Got a pocket full of cash." She patted said pocket in her blazer. Then she switched her eyes to Dr. Huang. "You want anything? Captain Cragen is buying...."

 

It wasn't until he stood up that Stabler let go of George's hand.

 

George Huang wondered if he'd taken a detour into the Twilight Zone.


	3. Chapter 3  Day Three

  
Author's notes: George wants to meet SGT Rodriguez...again.  


* * *

George had not been able to get the big Latin officer out of his mind. No doubt that was why he'd wandered to this part of the building on his lunch break. Quite without conscious intent of doing so, or a specific destination in mind. Though...he had looked on the building map to find out just where SWAT was located. But he hadn't intended to actually come here.

 

Then, day dreaming, his feet took him....here at the first opportunity. He smirked at himself, how obvious he was being. Well, he might as well take advantage of being here. It wasn't likely he would find the courage to deliberately return if he chickened out and ran now.

 

He looked around.

 

"Sir?" It was the crisp, efficient voice that brought him back to where he was, and what he was doing. He looked up. Into a six foot plus, black officer's face, lean and shark-like, brown eyes hyper-observant. Military more than civilian. Poised to react to any and all possibilities.

 

George Huang blinked up into that hunter's face for a moment, at a loss. What was it he wanted.....? Oh.

 

"Uhm...." he began, eloquently. "I was...I mean...I am Dr. George Huang. I just started working with SVU." He lifted the badge that had been dangling from it's clip on his chest. The dark eyes flicked, but never lost track of his face. "I was one of the.."

 

He hesitated, reluctant to call himself a victim... "I was in the SVU bullpen when the shooter broke in. SGT Rodriguez helped me. Took me out." No that didn't sound right! George cleared his throat. "Rescued me. From the shooting.... I'd like to thank him. May I speak to him?" He noticed his voice had risen strangely at the end of the short speech.

 

Had this man been there? Huang didn't recall, but then, aside from Rodriguez, he wasn't sure he remembered anyone all that well.

 

The African American Officer was already turning fluidly, a grin spreading across his features, calling over one shoulder. His eyes knowing, but not cruel, not unkind. More understanding, as if George Huang or someone like him was expected, was supposed to show up here. "Hey. Rodriguez. Visitor. One of the hostages."

 

George Huang stood there in the hall startled to be referred to by that name. Hostage. He was now known as "one of the hostages". He wasn't sure he liked that appellation much. He forgot all his thoughts on that when the big form of the SGT darkened the door. Even without the armor the man was intimidating, towering. Broad, more obviously fat free than Huang had seen yesterday, his thighs bunching against the fabric of his uniform pants as he walked.

 

"Hey, Doctor Huang. How are you doing?" The soft voice rumbled at him, gentle and kind. More like that of a caretaker than a soldier type. The smile was warm, the eyes even warmer. "What can I do for you?"

 

"Coffee?" George managed, trying not to feel odd having to lean back to look up at the man. "I mean, may I buy you a cup? Lunch? I know it is late, but at least coffee?" He let the question hang. Hoping he wouldn't have to say more, to argue his case when words didn't want to come with his usual ease. He was a talker, always had been, but, he wasn't talking now.

 

The man looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. "Sure." Bright white teeth flashed. "I can always eat." He said, stepping into the doorway.

 

"Hey, Marshall." He called over his shoulder, and the black officer turned around with a raised brow, his gaze amused.

 

"I'm going on my break. I've got my pager."

 

"Ah, go on. I'll call you if we need you. Be careful doc, he'll eat anything that isn't nailed down. And don't let him near your fingers, you'll lose them." The black man said, laughing. Rodriguez echoed him, George recognizing at once that it was an old joke between the two men.

 

Then Rodriguez stepped out into the hall, coming nearer to George, a foot taller, hovering over the tiny figure of the psychiatrist. He moved with a carefully controlled grace, smooth and aware of his surroundings in a way that George couldn't miss as they headed by unspoken agreement out of the building and towards one of the local coffee shops.

 

Staying in, going to the cafeteria, facing the looks of other men and women, wondering if they knew how he felt, George didn't want that. He wasn't used to feeling uncertain. He was comfortable in his own skin. But, he hadn't worked with police, he'd been FBI, and he'd consulted with police departments, sure, but FBI was different than run of the mill police.

 

There were gay men and women he'd known in the FBI. But he'd also picked up enough to know that police, real police didn't tolerate gays in their ranks with the same level of unconcern. Gay policemen died every year, when back up was slow, or didn't show at all. They were harassed until they quit.

 

George was new here. The territory was unknown. He wanted to be very careful. Bad enough that he'd already been nearly killed by an enraged criminal. He wouldn't risk friendly fire if he could help it.

 

"I wanted to thank you for the rescue and...afterwards. You were very kind..." George said after they had seated themselves in a private corner. It was off hours, too late for breakfast and too early for lunch, and the small cafe was nearly empty. No one was sitting close enough to their table to over hear the conversation.

 

"It is my job." The big man said, his voice modulated low, it's deep timbre flowing over Huang's skin like warm, melted butter. He felt the unexpected response of his body, the tightening and peaking of his nipples until they pressed against his shirt where he folded his arms, hiding them, what they meant, from the other man's eyes.

 

"I think, perhaps you went a little beyond the call of duty." He took a sip of the warm tea he had ordered, elbows still tucked close to his sides. "And I for one am grateful you did. I was frozen, I don't think i could have moved on my own. Without help."

 

He was subjected to a sudden and intense scrutiny from those amber-dark eyes that had so reassured him yesterday. The wide smile grew slowly, brightly, breathtaking.

 

"Thanks. Most people freeze. It is why we train so often. Response has to be made automatic. You have to fight the freeze. Defeat it." The SWAT officer said. And George thought of other things, chocolate, caramel, wine so good, so rich it slid over his tongue.... to keep himself from climbing up over the tiny table and kissing that mouth. Swallowing the creamy words. Filling his own mouth with the strength of flavor and supple tongue.

 

It took him a moment to realize that the man was still talking to him.

 

"You know, these situations are intense," He said, his whisper lush, "It is easy to form an attachment to people who help you through them. It's alright to feel like you want to be around me. I probably make you feel safe." He looked into George's brown eyes.

 

George Huang had never blushed so fast in his life. His mouth fell open, and yet he couldn't find the words...

 

"I...I...am sorry, I didn't mean...." He was sitting here, an adult, because he wanted to be protected, for someone else to make him feel protected. Like a child would reach out to a parent after a nightmare. He wanted someone to check under his bed for monsters.

 

The huge hand came to rest over his own, stilling it's nervous picking. George couldn't look up at first. But he could grab that hand, with both of his, holding tight. Throat clogged. He hadn't felt bad, he hadn't felt like he was going to cry. He hadn't felt afraid, nervous, or like his control was frayed, not until the man had touched him, and brought down his shields. Exposed his vulnerabilities.

 

George Huang gulped. Tears filling his eyes. Brimming, he lowered his head, unwilling to let the man's hand go, even at the cost of crying in front of him, of having tears cascade down his cheeks.

 

"It's alright. I don't mind." The big SGT moved, and George found himself hidden from the rest of the cafe, against the man's side, his bulk making it impossible for any one curious enough to look to determine if George was a man or a woman being soothed. Being held snug in the crook of the man's arm.

 

It came to him that he was having a panic attack. That his heart was pounding, his breath coming too fast, sweat rolling off of his skin. He couldn't hold still. He wanted to run. His hands rolled into fists, folds of Rodriguez' uniform shirt caught in them.

 

"Come on. I'll help you stand." Rodriguez told him, solicitously lifting him to his feet. Guiding him outdoors, where he didn't feel so much like he was smothering. "Slow it down. Slow it down." A wide palm rubbed up and down his back. Rodriguez was holding him, hugging him while they walked.

 

"Lay on your side." He was told as a seat belt was fastened across his body. He was high up in the air, a big vehicle, one of the larger SUV's. Then Rodriguez slid into the driver's seat. And the SUV slid into traffic. George shivered. Gasped.

 

He half listened to Rodriguez calling in, telling the man, Marshall, he was going home, that he still had his pager on. Asking to be patched through to Captain Cragen. A soft conversation followed, the voice lulling Huang as he listened to the one sided explanation. While he shivered on the leather seat.

 

Then he was being awakened, lifted, carried inside a building, a nice brownstone set on a quiet street.

 

Inside. Laid on something soft. Covered with warmth. His tie loosened. A pillow under his head. He slept.

 

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

 

Hours later George Huang opened his eyes to slanting evening light. He was on a couch in a moderately sized living room. Wonderful smells of food filled the air. He discovered he was hungry. Then he remembered the rest of his day.

 

He snapped to an up right position. He had had a meltdown in front of the same man who had helped him use the bathroom the first day they had met. Now this. Falling apart, crying in front of the man, hyperventilating. He moaned quietly, shaking his head.

 

"Hey." The soft word made him jump. The smile was just as wide, just as sweet as he remembered it. "Ready for some vegetable soup?"


	4. Chapter 4  Day Four

  
Author's notes: George and Elliot, and how to focus on work...not.  


* * *

Arriving at the office George Huang faced the growing stack of case files on his desk. The small stack of three he had left yesterday when he had gone off for a lunch that had stretched into several hours, and finally into a nap on a near stranger's couch..the stack had grown. And ther were a number of messages planted in the center of his blotter held down by a rock he used as a paper weight.

 

He'd fallen asleep next to a stranger. A stranger who wasn't really a stranger, and who sure could cook. Kind, big, gentle, strong, and a good cook. Oh, and handsome. George was more than half way to being infatuated. Though he was uncomfortable at the dependency he seemed to be developing. Dependency wasn't the way to deal with stress reactions.

 

Last evening, he'd had a bowl of the best vegetable soup he'd ever tasted, and fresh bread with real butter. A small amount of red wine to help him relax, and he'd fallen asleep a second time on the couch. Only to wake snuggled up to Rodriguez' side, his head pillowed on one enormous thigh, while the other man was watching the nightly news at low volume and patting his back soothingly. Not sexual, but defintely affectionate, caring. Scary wonderful.

 

Rodriguez had driven him home after that. Escorting him up his stairs and standing there while George unlocked his apartment like a concerned date. Then turning and leaving the other man safely inside, after he listened to George turning the deadbolt.

 

Now, the next day, George tried to feel uncomfortable as he riffled through the notes. And couldn't. Rodriguez was being serious when he said he didn't mind George wanting to be near him. He'd taken care of the psychiatrist, fed him, watched over him while he slept. All with a perfect aura of comfort, willingness. Not even one iota of discomfort. the note second fromthe top was from him. From Rodriguez. Oh ghod.

 

Huang made his way around to the other side of his desk and sat, his tea placed carefully on one end of the blotter, safe from his shaking hand. The note was brief. "I'll see you tomorrow, call me sooner if you ned to talk." Oh ghod. Of course he remembered then, the big SGT telling him he would make him dinner after work, and they would talk more. His gentle, deep voice caressing George as he walked him up the steps. And he remembered agreeing. Gratefully.

 

He pressed his trambling hands between his knees for a moment to steady them. He was at work. He had to work. It was his job. He drew in a deep breath and reached for the stack.

 

There were now eight files, thick and well thumbed files, added to the stack of three from yesterday. He picked the top one up.

 

A murdered and raped prostitute. Blonde, strangled, no defensive wounds to speak of, found in a basement nearby the area she was know to frequent. One foot print in the basement only a partial, size twelve work boot. He moved on to the next file.

 

A murdered and raped school teacher. Found in her classroom after hours by a female janitor. Blonde, young, well liked. No current relationship, concentrated all her energies on her students and teaching. A member of several groups, often worked late. No one saw anyone around the school who stood out. He opened the next casefile.

 

A murdered and raped housewife. Found at home by her teenaged daughter. A smudged footprint on the textured linoleum of her laundry room. Impossible to get a clean lift of the print, but it did appear to be size twelve of larger. A big man, most likely. Though not as big as Rodriguez. Apalled, George quashed that thought ruthlessly. He was working. Working. Not daydreaming. Please.

 

A murdered and raped college coed. He read on lifting file after file and reviewing them, scanning the contents as was his practice before settling in for a more detailed examination.

 

Ghod it was hell being a woman in the world that this happened in. How did women survive, how did they smile and dance and date and kiss, knowing that men might do things like this to them? He shuddered. Usually he could compartmentalize, but, he recognized the signs of traumatic reaction in himself. As long as he knew what was happening, he would be able to hanlde it.

 

His thoughts wandered back to the multiple rape cases. Strangers or men that they new, men that they loved. Who they thought loved them. Men who's children they carried. Who's lives they filled with companionship, love, sex and sometimes even happiness. Those were the men women often had to fear the most. Not this case, but often those men closest to a woman were the ones who put her at greatest risk. How sad, how terrible was that?

 

One moment when something horrible clicked in a man's head. And crimes like these, George looked at the stacks, one of the files he had looked at, one that still waited for him to read. Why? There were too many reasons, too many men. George was never so happy that he was a man and not a woman.

 

Though he knew men got raped. In prisons and out. By other men. Men. Yet...

 

George Huang loved men. Loved they way they looked. He loved the way they sounded. He loved their hands. He loved the way they smelled. He loved how they felt when he touched them. Touched them with his hands, his mouth, his body. He loved the way some men made him feel.

 

George Huang loved men. He had never felt anything close to the desire he felt with the right man, when he'd been with women. He liked women. He enjoyed their company, their talk, the easy way they touched each other. He often wished more men were like women in many ways.

 

But he didn't dream of kissing women. He dreamed of kissing men. He dreamed of men. Erotic, blazing hot encounters. Soft gentle cuddles. He recalled those he'd had, the best nights and afternoons and mornings he'd shared with men who had loved him.

 

That was a huge distinction for him. Love. He didn't risk himself, his body, his carnal needs, unless there was love. Sometimes it was friendship. Sometimes it was being in love. But there had to be real caring.

 

A knock at his door startled him into looking up, dragging him away from his thoughts and back to the job he was supposed to be doing.

 

"You had a chance to look the files over?" Stabler asked, looking tall and strong and breathtaking in his blue shirt, dark tie and suit, Benson crowding in close to his shoulder as the two of them peered into Huang's tiny, cubicle of an office.

 

"Only superficially. I haven't read them in depth. I couldn't give you more than a vague and certainly experimental impression." George said, forcing himself not to stare at he man who somehow rang every bell he had.

 

"Anything will help. Aside from the fact that the M.O. is clearly the same we have hit a dead end." Benson offered nudging her larger male partner into the office so she could follow him. Plastering himself against the wall, Stabler made enough room for her to enter, squeeze past and and sit in the single chair, leaning over the edge of the desk.

Her eyes were dark discs entirely focused on the here and now. They made Huang want to squirm, to confess, because he wasn't focused.

 

Stabler was left to sit on the corner of the desk, his thigh against George's forearm. Again. Touching. George swallowed, lowering his head, directing his mind with all his will power on the files in front of him.

 

Since he had come here men were touching him. Handling him. Without hesitation or concern for what others thought. And without asking what he thought. Was he giving off signals he wasn't aware of? It hadn't happened like that in the FBI ranks. He certainly wasn't petted and stroked and picked up and carried into cars and houses at Quantico. Nor was he taken to the bathroom and his hand held. It was the oddest thing, he told himself. But he couldn't say he didn't like it. Being taken over, sort of, physically, he enjoyed the moderately possessive touches these men were giving him. As if they assumed they had the right. Well, he had had opportunity to protest. Instead he kept his mouth shut.

 

He opened the closest file, forced himself to concentrate on the information.

 

"OK. Basic facts. All the women were roughly the same age. The prostitute was younger, 21, but her lifestyle, drugs, smoking, drinking, made her look older, in her late twenties. The other women were ranged from 26 to 33 years of age. All were blonde. They did have different areas of residence, and those that worked had different types of jobs." He shuffled the photos laying them out on his desk.

 

"They look almost like sisters." Olivia Benson pointed out, automatically. "We noticed that right away when we did the case board. With their pictures lined up, it is obvious he has a type. We just can't figure out why."

 

"Well, their looks seem to be the thing that attracts the guy." Elliot added his agreement to the conversation. "We know that and we still can't get a handle on him."

 

"I can't lead you to his door. But his profile should include a wife or live in girlfriend who looks like these women. She is becoming more independent, and that is escalating him. He feels he is losing control over her, and he is taking ultimate control with his victims because of it."

 

"Killing them." Olivia said, pressing her lips tight. She leaned in closer.

 

"All of the women in the files I looked over were killed first, raped second." George added. "He took control by killing them. Then he sexually asserted his dominance. Not the usual pattern. But it fits with his need to have absolute control."

 

Stabler was so close Huang could scent him, smell that particular scent that was the man. He knew it after only four days in his new job. Surely that was phenomenal. A record, something? He had no control over himself, his eyes drifted up to look into the blue ones gazing down at him, their intensity once again making a visceral impression.

 

"Uh..." George faltered, trying to remember what he was going to say. "Uh...he looks non threatening, maybe in a uniform, gas company, telephone, something like that. And my money is on him being reasonably attractive, not creepy. None of the women fought back, they didn't have time. They let him get too close, they weren't prepared, so...they weren't afraid of him. He was able to get behind them."

 

He wanted to move closer. He wanted to talk to the detective...about things that had nothing to do with work. Inappropriate things. George frowned internally. He wasn't like that, like this. He was dedicated, he never had trouble separating work and personal. He wasn't in the habit of flirting or forming liaisons at work...it had to be a reaction to the first day. How likely was it he'd just met the two men he simply was powerless to resist...at the same time? Not.

 

"So, attractive guy, not too scary, nothing to make the ladies run screaming, maybe a uniform, works for some common entity...Girlfriend or wife newly independent, maybe got her first job and, let me guess, is doing well at it." Stabler reiterated what George had said.

 

Benson stood up. "Not much, but something. Let's see if we can figure out a way to track the routes of gas and phone trucks, and whatever other companies we can come up with. Plumbers, cable, delivery..." She shrugged, "..you didn't narrow it down much." Her smile, wry, always with a grim edge to it was no different today. She wasn't dinging him.

 

"I'll catch up with you." Stabler said not budging his butt off of George's desk. Benson grunted something back at him, already hard at work finding out what strategy, what approach she was going to use to filter through what was sure to be too much information to help the cases.

 

"You alright?" The detective said. "You left early."

 

George felt the blush as it happened. A slow creep up his face.

 

"You aren't all right." The baritone voice said, concern coloring the tone. He put out a big hand and settled it on Huang's near shoulder. "Tell me. The shooting? Still getting to you?"

 

"Yes," George found he couldn't lie to this man. They shared a long look, eyes melded, unable to glance aside. George felt his heart flip in his chest. Oh Christ, what the hell was happening....

 

The man nodded. "The idiot who is assigned to help counsel us through this isn't going to be any help." He growled. And George had to agree with that assessment. "Tonight, I'll take you home, take-out and we'll talk. It's been a while since I was first shot at, but I remember it." He raised a hand and stroked it unselfconsciously down Huang's smooth cheek, fingers feathering through the fringe of dark hair near his ear, never looking aside, his eyes burning into the psychiatrist's.

 

"We'll work it out." He added, confidently, softly. And he probably was confident. He probably had spoken to dozens of officers after their first shootings. George, strangely, felt better. He smiled, a little weak smile maybe, not his usual radiant one, but it was an honest smile. He nodded.

 

"OK." George Huang said. "We'll talk."


	5. Chapter 5  Day Five

  
Author's notes: The next Day.....George can't get it....  


* * *

Last night's dinner had been fantastic. Spending time with Elliot, fantastic. Talking with him while they sat on the rather old couch, fantastic. Those dark blue, so intense eyes, fantastic. Staring into them, seeing the feelings they held, wow. Getting to know the man. Still married, but separated. Aching with the loss of the one stable relationship he'd had almost all of his adult life.

 

Sex....not fantastic. Because it hadn't happened. Kisses, not fantastic. They hadn't happened, either. So close, but not yet. Elliot wasn't ready yet. Despite George feeling almost the strongest attraction he'd ever felt in his life. Nothing more than holding hands had happened. Fingers winding together, shoulders and legs touching, companionable, leaning into each other's space.

 

For some reason George couldn't understand, the men of NYPD wanted to hold his hand, wanted to pamper him and let him know they cared. They wanted to cook for him and take care of him. But they didn't want to get him off. Which was too bad, because he was getting damn horny being around the two gorgeous man who were dancing attendance on him.

 

Men, in his experience wanted sex. They thought about it all the time. They married to get it. They gave up their freedom to get it, along with other perks. But instead of sex...he was getting soup and afghans. Dinner and holding hands. Soulful gazes that almost burned him to a crisp, but no sex, no necking...no tongue, damn it.

 

He sighed, moving the box of files from his desk to the chair next to it. He had pages of notes he was working on. It was horrifying in the extreme that one man was responsible for all of these crimes. The pattern, the crimes, the similarities were too exact to be a copy cat. Too few details had been published to give any other perpetrator enough to go on to duplicate the crimes. It was the work of one very sick man. One man that he was determined to play a part in capturing. One man who had been out there in the streets making them his own private version of hell for too long.

 

George Huang powered up his lap top, scanning the notes he'd written in his very precise, readable hand while the machine whirred quietly, booting up. He was definitely the exception to the rule that a doctor's handwriting was impossible to read.

 

Then he started typing. The information flowed from him onto the screen, he never looked at it, never took his eyes off the notes after one quick check to make sure he was actually putting words up as he typed.

 

This was how he worked best. He would almost internalize, channel the info, sorting it as he wrote...eyes unwavering, glued to the sheaf of notes, but unfocused. He wasn't re-reading them, not once he started typing.

 

He'd propped the door of his office closed to hopefully limit the likelihood of visitors, the noise he was helpless to do anything about, so he tuned it out as best he could, and typed. Captain Cragen knew he didn't want to be disturbed. It was the best George could do. He typed, the pages flowing from his fingers.

 

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

 

A knock broke his concentration. He looked up and up, blinking in shock as he saw it was SGT Rodriguez standing in the mostly closed doorway, one shoulder and his head all that could fit inside, the black waves of his cropped hair touching the top of the frame.

 

Immediately Huang swung himself around to look at the clock on his wall. It was after six. Well after, almost seven really. They had arranged to meet downstairs at six thirty. He was late.

 

He'd been typing for five solid hours. He checked the monitor. Yep. Five hours. He suddenly had to go to the bathroom, his bladder, now that he was paying attention to something besides his report, was howling at him to hurry. He stood, smiling, happy to see the other man. noting again how attractive he was, how he overwhelmed the senses with his size, his presence.

 

"Uh." He said, shy of telling this man of this particular need considering their history. "I, uh, I need a minute..." He squeezed past the big man, Rodriguez moving aside easily.

 

"I'll be right back." And he fled down the hall. Missing the grin on the darkly handsome face.

 

George was back in less than ten minutes. Hands washed and dried, tie straightened, shirt tucked in, hair in order.

 

Rodriguez had fallen into a friendly debate with Detective Munch, who would debate with an aggressive charm on any subject at the drop of a hat. George had listened to him only this morning disgorging fact after fact on multiple topics, with the sarcastic authority of a university professor. He wondered how such a man had ended up as a police officer.

 

Munch wasn't big, or macho, or anything else that George automatically associated with being a police officer. He seemed far more likely to scold a suspect than to chase him down and wrestle him to the ground. He dressed well, he spoke well, he was highly educated on a diverse range of subjects, and George was pretty sure he was Jewish. He was also, of course, tough as nails. His partner, Fin was as opposite as could be. Street smart, more authoritative, physical, more hostile at times, with a tendency to bare his small, sharp teeth, and yet they got along well. Two cogs of the wheel, perfectly in sync.

 

"I'll be just a sec." George said as Rodriguez looked up, smiling, warm, big and so damn tempting George almost stumbled walking past. He disappeared into his office, closing down his computer after saving the file. He pulled the door to after picking up his jacket. An additional hour in the morning and his report would be ready. The first one he'd give to Cragen. He wondered how it would be received.

 

Rodriguez put a hand on his back as they left the room. George came close to moaning at the possessive touch. Every nerve in his body, tired from the long inactivity, woke and shook itself, ready for more.

 

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

 

It was dark. A faint light from outside was barely a grey shadow on the ceiling. George Huang lay blinking up at the dappled ceiling. He turned on his side towards an unfamiliar door open a small crack. The unoccupied mattress stretched out in front of him.

 

He was in a king sized bed. He knew he hadn't fallen asleep in here, nor come in under his own power. He remembered dinner, Rodriguez was a fabulous cook, the first time had not been a fluke. He remembered wine after dinner. He remembered feeling drowsy after his long day. He must have fallen asleep on the couch...again.

 

Some date he was. If these meetings could indeed be called dates. He was pretty sure they were. Dates. But he'd not been much in the way of company either time. And being asleep most of the time he spent with Rodriguez didn't give them much time to talk about issues like relationships.

 

He let out a little huff. Ghod. Rodriguez was going to think he was always asleep. He must have carried George in here afterward. Removed his shoes, belt and tie, and covered him with another crocheted afghan. He smiled. He seemed to attract afghans. At least since he'd come to NY.

 

The door opened and a large shadow came in, the light from the hall outlining him from behind. There could only be one man he knew who was that big. The bed dipped as the man sat on the edge rolling him in that direction. It was a temptation, to roll all the way up against that doubled leg.

 

"You awake now?" Rodriguez asked in his deep, soft voice. He ran a hand over George's hair, cupped the back of his neck, squeezed gently.

 

George melted, he felt every bone in his body go liquid. His nipples go hard, his stomach go fluttery. He reached out his hand. Placed it on the bare forearm, felt all the muscle under his hand shift as he did. Rodriguez put his hand on top, wove their fingers together. Holding hands. Holding hands.

 

"I am awake," Huang whispered. He prayed he wasn't dreaming, imagining this because he wanted it so bad.

 

"How do you feel? You conked right out." Fingers stroked down his cheek. So careful, so gentle. Hard to believe in a man who did what Rodriguez did for a living. Though even as he thought it, George knew he was wrong. Theses man, these officers had all the same feelings as any other person.

 

A thumb caressed over his lip. He gasped, his skin tightening at the touch, unconsciously erotic. They moved on, grazing the corner of his mouth, tugging, he could taste the clean skin. He kissed the fingertips, one tiny kiss and they lingered, delicately resting there.

 

"You put me to bed." He said, keeping his voice low, not wanting to break the mood, his lips brushing the slightly roughened digits. His tongue aching to come out and wet them. A man's hand, definitely, hard and strong, not pampered or soft. Big, masculine hands.

 

"Yes. I did. I liked taking care of you." A flash of whiter than white teeth. "Are you comfortable? Would you like to rest longer? It is only ten."

 

"I am fine." He tightened his grip on Rodriguez' arm a fraction. "What I want...come in here with me?" He asked and then held his breath. Would Rodriguez agree or refuse?

 

"You want for me to sleep here, in the bed with you? You want me to join you?" Dark chocolate, smooth and rich. George trembled feeling the caress of the words as the big man leaned closer. Rodriguez rested their foreheads together. George discovered he was gripping both of the other man's shoulders. He moved forward, and their mouths touched.

 

"Will you? I want that very much." George said, "I want that so much."

 

"We must talk first, amor. I must explain how things are with me. How they will be for us, if you want there to be an us."

 

"You don't want to be with me?" George guessed, feeling a crushing disappointment. Hands came to rest framing his face. He was kissed again.

 

"That is not true. I want you. I want to know what it is like to touch you, to hold you, to have you in my arms. I want to taste all of you. I want to recognize your scent when I walk into a room where you have been. I want to know what makes you cry out in pleasure, I want to know all the secrets you hold. To hold you in the dark and kiss away your cries as I love you. I want all of these things with you. But you will have to teach them to me."

 

"Are you gay?" George asked, surprised that he might not be. He was so easy with touching another man, so comfortable.

 

"I have not been in the past."

 

"So, not bisexual, either?"

 

"No. I am attracted to you, however." The back of Rodriguez' hand ghosted down George's throat, stopping at his collar bone. The pulse in George's neck beating hard and fast.

 

"You just said you weren't gay or bisexual. How can you be attracted to me?"

 

"There is a first time for everything."

 

"So..what does that mean?"

 

"As I said I wish to lay with you. I want to know how to touch you. I want to kiss you, have you suck my tongue into your mouth. I want your spit on my skin, I want to feel it on my dick. Someday, I want all these things with you. But, I am not ready to have sex with you. Not because you are a man. I do not believe in sex outside of a committed relationship, George. That is why." The big man was looking down, his face half dark, and Huang wished the light was better, that he could see into the dark, expressive, amber eyes.

 

"I will come into the bed with you if it is what you wish tonight. But we will not have sex. I will kiss you. We can touch, learn about each other, but we will not have sex. Do you still want me to come in with you, knowing this?" George loved the formality, the diction of speech that told him Rodriguez had spoken another language first, before English. He was beginning to crave the sound of the accent that was smooth as butter to his ear.

 

"Yes. Just, not naked. Please put something on. Or I can't vouch for myself. My will power is not that strong. Do you have any idea how you look?" The last was a bit of a whine, a touch desperate. "It has been a long time for me."

 

"I like that you think of me as desirable. Would you like to watch me undress, or should take care of it elsewhere and return to you in a T shirt and pajamas?" The smile was another flash of white.

 

He managed to make Rodriguez understand that he wanted to watch, though he thought he might have swallowed his own tongue thinking of it. His fingers curled holding onto the edge of the blanket that covered him, his toes curling in anticipation.

 

He watched as Rodriguez stood. Hands going to his shirt buttons. Slowly unbuttoning them. Tugging the tails out of his pants. Oh, ghod. Standing there, reflected in the light, the contrast between each muscle stark, he was magnificent.

 

Huang had never seen any man with a more stunning body. A chest like Adonis, thick muscle sweeping from shoulder to shoulder, smooth, no hair, capped with dark, oval nipples.

 

Abs like they were carved from marble, the belly button in the center of the cut, no fat to be seen. The trail of hair, flat against him, leading down. Drawing the eye.

 

Arms...oh...corded, heavy biceps that flexed and relaxed, flowed into massive shoulders, forearms larger than George's own upper arms, hypnotizing. And hands, big hands, long fingers, his mouth went dry and the moan he'd been fighting all day found it's way out.

 

Look, look but don't touch. He couldn't look and touch without it being too much. The pants went next, then the briefs. Rodriguez turning to toss them aside. Touching himself, adjusting his genitals with an often used motion, not meant to tease or to be erotic. But it was.

 

His hips, his butt was classic perfection, powerful curves and jutting flesh. Gleaming in the faint light from the open bedroom door. No flaws anywhere. And he was a large, soft curve in the front. Unaroused, or mostly so, the thick column resting over the soft, dark mass of his balls. George itched to touch the quiescent flesh. He wasn't sure yet if that was permitted.

 

"I have things that are more comfortable for you to wear." The man whispered, "Unless you are shy...?"

 

"No! No! I am not shy!" George scrambled out of his clothes.

 

"Is this OK?" Rodriguez asked waving a hand down his body.

 

"Yes." George, interrupted the question, thought he was going to strangle.

 

"George..."

 

"Ghod, yes..."

 

"No, listen to me. I do not sleep with anyone, by that I mean have sex with anyone, so soon. I feel a connection with you. A strong one. But even for you...it is too soon for me."

 

"No. Please. Why..." He felt crushed by the disappointment of the reminder as he lay there, naked now, on top of the bed, Rodriguez leaning over him.

 

"If you want to feel me against you, if you want to touch me and for me to touch you, to sleep here, with me, I understand that. I can give you that. But no intercourse between us. Do you agree?"

 

It was hard, so hard to nod, one of the hardest things he had ever done.

 

"I have pajamas, let me put them on."

 

"This is so hard...."

 

"I will put them on, then it will be easier. They can always come off later." The shrug of the huge shoulders was followed by the man going to his dresser. He pulled the pants on, the T shirt, one that clung to every curve of magnificent muscle, opened another drawer, held up a much smaller bundle of cloth. "For you." He said.

 

George groaned.


	6. Chapter 6  Day Six

  
Author's notes: And just when it seemed things were settled......  


* * *

"You look like you could use this." George looked up as Elliot placed a cup on his desk blotter. The bigger man was at easy, sensual as a cat, one hip propped on the corner of the desk, his thigh less than an inch from George's hand. A hand that rested uselessly on the key's to the computer.

 

George rubbed at his tired eyes. Tea. Red Rose, Lipton, Tetleys.... He wanted it so bad. As long as it was caffeinated, he wanted it. The herbal tea he usually had, which Rodriguez had bought for him, brewed for him perfectly this morning, was not enough today. Not after getting less than an two hours sleep last night.

 

Of course at the time, being held in those magnificent arms, their bellys pressed together, the scent of the other man in his nostrils...it had been so, so worth it. Every second. Even as he rode the man's hard abs, knowing he couldn't, didn't dare take what he wanted so badly. Knowing he couldn't shoot his load all over the brown skin. Couldn't reach down and jerk himself off. Couldn't get off in any way, without breaking their agreement.

 

"I don't drink caffeine, haven't for a while..." He tried to resist he really did, his gaze almost devouring the cup as it sat there steaming innocently, weaving it's temptation through the entire confines of his minute office. He fantasized he could smell the caffeine calling him, tempting him, playing it's siren song....he shivered at the thought.

 

"Today, I think you can make an exception. I think you need it." Stabler nudged the cup closer, his small smile benevolent. "It is the lightest caffeine they had. Mostly herbal tea. Just a touch to keep your eyes open and bright. Otherwise...I think you may fall asleep at your desk." He smiled more broadly, the smile changing to a grin.

 

"I'd rather you saved that..." he didn't exactly say what..."until I can tuck you in. Tonight."

 

George felt the breath catch in his chest. Ghod that smile. Those eyes. Last night he'd almost decided, almost declared himself. He wanted Rodriguez so badly it actually hurt. Being up against him, held, rocked, kissed, his body had gone on high alert. And he understood intimately how people did the craziest things for lust. Pure burning, devouring, starving, hungry lust.

 

George Huang nearly burst last night. Nearly lost control, despite his promise not to, nearly spent himself all over that stunning body. Instead he'd lain there, groaning both silently and aloud, hard as he'd ever been, maybe harder, wanting to make love, have sex, hell to just fuck, aching for it. But holding back as Rodriguez slipped a warm, wet, sensual tongue into his mouth, licking away every scrap of common sense and higher brain function he had. As he rocked his hips into George's, hard, but not so urgent as Huang. He was in control. George had been pudding in his arms, helpless. Rodriguez could have done anything to him, anything, and George would have let him. So aroused he was close to senseless. So aroused it had hurt...an incredibly good hurt.

 

"Thank you." George Huang said sincerely to the man bending down towards him, giving in and reaching out to snag the cup. He felt the heat touch his lips, flow into his mouth, faintly Jasmine, faintly peachy, like Earl Grey...surprisingly it was good. And it would wake him up. He closed his eyes, felt the steam collecting on his face. Perfect. Pleasant. Reviving. His body recalled caffeine with great affection, welcoming it.

 

"Your eyelashes." Elliot said. His eyes fastened on George's face. George opened his eyes halfway, just enough to see the other man watching him. He could feel it, the almost imperceptible weight of the drops condensing on his lashes, too. Like tiny diamonds. Elliot was looking at him like a man seeing water in the desert. Ghod, those eyes.

 

George swallowed his mouthful of tea, his desire for the one battling with his desire for the other. Elliot sat gazing at him, reaching out, until George felt the tentative touch on the back of his free hand, the whispering touch of fingers ghosting across his skin, along his own fingers, not holding, just caressing. He had to close his eyes. The seduction not very hard to accomplish today. Not after his night.

 

George Huang had never had public sex. But he wanted it now. Now he wanted to move in, rest his face on the strong, hard thigh of the detective sitting on his desk, unzip the navy trousers, and free the man's cock. He wanted it in his mouth, in his hand, in his body. The need tore through him like an electric current. He stared up at Stabler, his need painted on his face, his lips parted as he lowered the cup of tea. How could any tea compete with this man?

 

Stabler got up and pushed the door closed gently but firmly. Then he returned to his seat on the corner of Huang's desk. He stared at George who found himself mesmerized as if a moth by the flame. He put the tea aside, out of the way. Elliot touched his chin, cupped it, his long fingers curling to hold his jaw. His thumb stroked to the edge of George's mouth.

 

"Sweetheart, do you know what you do to me?" Stabler asked his voice deep, resonant, charged with something dark and mysterious, and so fine. George let out a whimper. His skin had tightened all over his body, his nipples were peaked into hard points against his shirt, and his groin was full of blood, all in one instantaneous rush. Ah, ghod. Again. He couldn't believe it, this. He truly had no control. None at all if two men could do this to him. Make him hungry as a slut for both, for either, for sex.

 

Stabler's blue eyes burned into his. He leaned in, closer, his face blurring, George feeling the movement of his breath warm, gusting over his cheek, his mouth. He felt the heat of the other man's skin, saw, unfocused, the intense eyes drifting shut, long lashes a dark swathe, a crescent on his cheek. Then the kiss. Soft as silk, barely there, growing firmer, lips closed, but clinging. George whimpered again, his legs involuntarily parting, his body knowing exactly what it craved, positioning to get it.

 

A big thumb brushed over one of his hard nubbed nipples, and he groaned, an urgent, pleading sound. The single touch melting his pelvis into softness, into liquid, he felt his body giving in, relaxing, readying itself to surrender and to accept a long, hard, hot column of flesh. He fought not to jerk off his pants, fling himself down on to the desk, and open his body wide. He was in his office. In the squad-room of SVU. Shielded only by one closed, unlocked door. Two thin inches between them and everyone out there.

 

Stabler freed him, painfully slow, but far too fast, first his hand moved away from Huang's chest. Then he raised his head, their lips clinging, moist, George trying to follow, straining silently after those maddening lips. The hand at his wrist stayed, holding him, their last point of contact. Elliot's eyes were watching him. George thought the look in them would at last be enough to push him over the edge, make him spill into his short. It was a near thing, teetering on the razor's verge. Uttering small, panting groans. Sitting, his legs splayed, his hips pressing down into the seat of his chair, needing contact there, even the inanimate kind better than nothing, to hold himself together.

 

Elliot, his face serious, sensual, with an odd overtone of triumph, hunger, and reproach, stared down. He moved, but George didn't look at what he was reaching for, until the detective put his cup of tea back in his hand.

 

"You have been seeing Rodriguez." Stabler said, the tenor of his voice subtly changed. Huang frowned, sipped, unable to decipher the tone or it's meaning. Not picking up the usual clues he did from expression, tone or posture.

 

"What?" George managed the one word, confusion coloring it, his dark eyes luminous, his wit not quite returned from the moment before. The kiss. His gaze continually tried to float down, to fix on that mouth less than a foot away. While he fought not to let himself go so far. While he tried to think.

 

"Be careful, George. He is not exactly...well actually he is exactly what he seems. He is SWAT." Stabler waited, as if he'd just made some very important point and George was supposed to know what it meant. "I was a Marine. I know Special Forces."

 

"Wha..?" George repeated stupidly, still caught in the sensual dream state, his mind unable to click, to rationalize, to think, to analyze. Then he watched those lips move as Stabler answered. Good Christ he was turning into a pile of goo, melting. What he wouldn't do for a good, hard, fast fuck...or a long, slow, deep, loving one. Or a damn hand-job.

 

"They can be a little intense." Stabler said, in his warm tone. While George blinked, hoping he could blink some blood back into his brain. He didn't understand at all. What was Elliot saying? What did he mean? What he was saying? What did what he was saying mean? Blink, blink. Blinking wasn't helping.

 

George opened his mouth to ask a clarifying question, couldn't think of one, looked up in confusion, seeing the blue eyes dilate as they looked down at him, piercing. He let out a pitiable little moan, that was almost a question, an offer, a plea. Just as two quick raps sounded and Benson stuck her head inside.

 

"Come on partner, we've caught a new case." She said briskly, the excitement she felt at the beginning of each case, the adrenaline ramping up, all of it plain in her voice. The excitement transferring to her partner instantly, so the desire fled his expression, and it changed. Determination, purpose.

 

"What?" George asked half desperate. Elliot looked down at him again, then shook his head. It wasn't a dismissal. It was a regrouping, a reorganizing. George wouldn't be able to pull him back from it, not now.

 

"I'm just saying." Stabler murmured. Then, "Damn you are incredible." His eyes swept up and down Huang's seated form. "Tonight." He said, his voice husky, thick.

 

Then he swung out the door, leaving the psychiatrist stunned, sitting in his chair, behind his desk, unable to stand unless he wanted everyone to see what ten minutes alone, in a closed office with Elliot Stabler and a cup of tea had done to him. He watched Benson and Stabler leave the squad-room, Elliot dragging on his long coat.

 

George was left with his laptop and a dozen questions.


	7. Chapter 7  Day Seven

  
Author's notes: he story continues... Competition heats up.......feel it?  


* * *

The restaurant/bar was classy as far as that went, but not too classy to relax in new jeans and a nice sweater, George thought as he arrived early. He noticed a few police officers, most in civilian clothes, and he was sure the woman against the far wall talking animatedly to a grey haired man in a suit with eyes like a gentle spaniel's, was one of the ADA's.

 

So. A bar frequented by police and other law enforcement people. He began to feel uneasy. Why had Stabler wanted to meet here? Why not some place more private? Unless...was he going to straighten George out? Explain, perhaps that George had misunderstood him? The flirting that really wasn't?

 

The Detective certainly couldn't be planning a surprise coming out of the closet party here. Stabler wasn't the type to do that in a big public way, George was sure of that. He was steady and intense and sometimes George was aware of something a little unsettled under all that control, but, no, he wouldn't come out here. Nor would he out George here. It had to be something else.

 

George frowned, accepting the seat the waiter indicated near the window to the back garden. People were outside, sitting under the glowing heaters that served as extra lamps. He saw one woman laugh, tilting back her head and letting loose a real, full bodied chortle. He suddenly, poignantly wanted to be there, sitting with her, listening to her, being a part of the laughter and ease. He wondered who she was. Was she a cop? Girlfriend, wife? Lawyer?

 

The only two people he was getting to know well in the city were Rodriguez and Stabler. Would he ever have the kind of relationship with either that would mean he would laugh like that with them? Or that they would be the one laughing? Friendship? Sex? He wasn't sure what he wanted from then, or for that matter what they wanted from him.

 

Not on a long term basis, anyway. Short term, he wanted sex so badly he ached. With which man? He wasn't sure. No, that wasn't honest. Be honest, he muttered to himself, his eyes fixed on the laughing woman. He would take either of them, either Elliot or Rodriguez. Both. He want both of them. Rodriguez in a way that burned through him, and Elliot in a less heated way, though in no way less intensely, no less urgently.

 

He took the menu but didn't look at it. He only half heard the waiter tell him that Detective Stabler had called and would be late in arriving. Would he like any appetizers, a drink? He mumbled that he'd have a beer when the question was poised, and went back to thinking.

 

The woman was sitting with two other women. No men. But the men sitting at the tables around her were watching her with smiles. Unguarded smiles, not polite and reserved.

 

The beer arrived in a bottle and he poured it into the glass that accompanied it. Absently watching the foam rise to the rim, then fall back, tiny bubbles bursting, releasing the beverage's yeasty scent.

 

George turned his attention back to the woman. She was at least in her mid forties. Not conventionally attractive. And not thin, pleasantly plump. And her face just shone with mirth. Her dark hair wild, with streaks of light grey. She looked...happy. And her infectious joy was spreading to the people sitting around her.

 

Then something made him look up over to the side, and his heart flipped in his chest, stuttered. Rodriguez was coming in the back gate, with a few other men, pretty convincingly SWAT. All of them big and buff. They were laughing, too. Moving with unconscious power and grace.

 

George stared at the happy smile of the tallest man. At the mouth he'd kissed a day and a half ago. The big hands that had touched him....he swallowed. One of Rodriguez' companions nudged him, and the big Latino turned.

 

Rodriguez looked over and saw the woman, and headed right for her. She reached up and hugged him when he leaned down over her from his great height. She beamed at him, and he kissed her warmly. George found he couldn't stop watching the two of them. He knew he was staring.

 

Rodriguez stopped speaking to her, his arms remaining lazily around her, his gaze sweeping the room as if he sensed eyes on him. Their gazes locked, and Rodriguez smiled again. Saying something over his shoulder to his friends, kissing the woman, who looked at him curiously, he spun on his heel and headed for George. The men and the women behind him craning to see who he was going to meet.

 

Huang felt his cheeks glow pink as six pair of eyes found him. He struggled to rise to his feet, but Rodriguez was at his side before he could, bending down, kissing his cheek. Warm and happy, smiling at him. Smelling so damn good. Reminding him of being in his arms, in his bed.

 

George was frozen in a half crouch stunned, his pants abruptly far too snug, seeing the eyebrows raise on the woman's face, and her gaze turn speculative. For some reason Stabler's warning...'he is exactly what he is, SWAT...." echoed in his brain. Whatever he was, the big Latino was not shy. He settled himself into the chair next to George, who was still stuck in place. His eyes flew back up to see Rodriguez' friends laughing good naturedly, no one staring any more, even the woman had gone back to her conversation and her laughter.

 

"Hey, what are you doing here?" Rodriguez sounded both pleased to find him here, and a bit puzzled, curious.

 

George didn't take the time to think of a lie, or a diversionary line, he just blurted out the truth. He was caught in the deep eyes, not wanting to look away. He'd pay a thousand dollars to be some where private, or at least somewhere dark enough he could touch this big man intimately, without causing an uproar.

 

"I'm meeting Elliot for dinner. Detective Stabler." George said, twirling the partly emptied bottle across the tablecloth. Rodriguez put his own long brown fingers over George's. He plucked the bottle away, raising it to his mouth, sipping.

 

"Uh, huh." Rodriguez looked at him, his gaze subtly different. "Friends or..." He made a gesture with his hand, the meaning clear. George flushed red.

 

"Friends." He paused, swallowed the lump in his throat, looking into the dark eyes of the man seated next to him. Eyes that demanded the truth of him. Deserved the truth. "So far. I don't know, maybe more, someday. I am not sure. I've known him, you, for less than a week."

 

Rodriguez stared at him. George felt the hairs raise up on the back of his neck.

 

"You want something more with me?" The big man asked. The bottle resting back on the table top. Casually held by thumb and forefinger.

 

"Yes." George didn't hesitate. He did want that. He almost burst into flames thinking about it. Recalling the last night they'd been together, slept in the same bed.

 

"But you still don't know about Stabler. If you want him?" The voice was gentler, and George felt his hair lay down again. He shivered. Christ, that was intense. Dangerous, that feeling. He licked his lips, slowed his breathing. Concentrated.

 

"I...don't know." He answered. True. He didn't. Not one hundred percent.

 

"Hmmm. Well, what is is going to take for you to figure it out? Us spending more time together? You spending time with him? He's married, you know that?" Rodriguez was back to his deep velvet voice, sweet and rich. George couldn't keep his eyes from wandering down the smooth, muscular neck to the glimpse of hard, broad, ghod-like chest. Then he forced his attention back up.

 

"Separated." George replied, nodding, unable to look away from those soft, brown eyes. The very same ones that had looked so....fucking frightening a few seconds ago.

 

This time it was Rodriguez who looked away for a moment, then back, he reached out, squeezed George's hand, carefully. Not hurting, but terribly, terribly strong. George felt his throat go dry, his heart begin to speed up again.

 

"Listen, babe, there are a lot of things I am really good at. Sharing," Rodriguez shrugged, his lips pursing for a moment. "Isn't one of them." He drank from the bottle again. Raised it, waving for a refill as a waiter passed. The man nodded, and set one on the table, opening it wordlessly before heading back to the bar.

 

"I can understand that." George said, his breath caught in his chest. His heart pounding still.

 

"I am not going to tell you what to do, amor. You do what you need to. I'm not going away. You and me, it's something special. Something maybe I haven't had before, and I am not referring to he fact you are a man, like me." They shared a long look. And George knew the SWAT officer was right. He had never felt this way before. He knew it was something different from every other relationship he'd had in the past.

 

George nodded, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He remembered again, like a bad dream, Elliot saying, 'he is what he seems....he is SWAT.' Special Forces. Maybe it was time for him to find out what that meant. Time for some research into what Rodriguez' experience in the military had been like. Maybe it would give him some insight into the man himself.

 

"I...." George began, but Rodriguez cut him off with a finger to his lips.

 

"No need to say more now, your man is coming." Rodriguez said to him, his eyes flicking off in the direction of the front entrance. "Later, if you want, you come to meet my aunt. She will want to know you. And you, I think, will enjoy her." He stood, unbearably tall, unbearably beautiful to the psychiatrist gazing up at him.

 

Rodriguez bent down, kissed his cheek, softly. In front of all the patrons of the restaurant, most of them law enforcement, in front of the woman he'd just outed as his family, in front of Elliot Stabler. George felt his hand come up to touch the smooth shaved cheek, unbidden and certainly unintentionally. Then Rodriguez straightened up.

 

"Detective Stabler." Rodriguez greeted the approaching man. He did not offer his hand. They exchanged a look. Rivals. George felt the air go cold.

 

"Sergeant Rodriguez." The tone wasn't welcoming, it was reserved, cautious. Both of them wary. George suddenly knew they were on their best behavior, because he was watching. He wondered what would happen when he wasn't around.

 

"Later, amor." Rodriguez murmured, a deep caressing rumble. And George felt his breath stop in his chest. Stabler didn't step back, but he did turn fractionally, his hand unconsciously going to his hip. Rodriguez smiled.

 

"No need, Detective. Enjoy your meal." He turned and left. George and Elliot both staring after him.

 

George, pale, his heart in his throat. Unable to explain the odd frisson of excitement.


	8. Chapter 8  Day Thirty-Three

  
Author's notes: What is it with George and Men with Guns?  


* * *

Eliot was half way home when his cell rang. He thought it would be Kathy, angry that he was late for their meeting. Angry that he was once again not going to be on time, just like all the other nights he'd missed things because of the job.

 

She wanted to discuss what was left of their relationship, the kids. Money. She was worried how the break-up was affecting the children, especially the twins. She wasn't sure if she wanted their marriage to be over. Not yet. She also wanted more money. Needed it. Once again Eliot was being made to feel like he never should have sunk to the level of being a cop. With a cop's crappy pay.

 

No matter how tired Stabler was, how desperately he wanted to sleep, he always had time for his kids. For their sake, he'd agreed to meet her at the house. The house where he lived and she no longer did. Where they had been together and no no longer were. He hadn't told George about the call, the details, just that Kathy needed to talk about the kids. Eliot didn't know how to tell Huang the rest of it.

 

The call was not from his estranged wife, however. He wished it was the instant he heard the voice that replied to his barked, "Stabler."

 

It was Captain Cragen. The older man's voice was taut with tension. Beyond the tension any new case would normally raise. The tone immediately raised the hair on the back of Eliot's neck. What ever the news was going to be, it wasn't good. He felt his heart begin to pump faster.

 

"Sir?" He said.

 

"It is Olivia." Cragen began. "She's been taken hostage."

 

"Fuck!" Stabler shouted loud enough to rattle the windows and stomped on the brakes, his SUV skidding to a stop in the middle lane of the road. Cars flashed by, swerving, horns blaring. Someone shouted, "Asshole!" out of their window then tucked their head back into their vehicle as he flicked his blue lights on. Eliot ground his teeth until they nearly snapped off. His eyes blazed.

 

"Learn to drive you stupid fucker." He shouted. Not caring it was his fault at all.

 

Tonight George was staying late with Olivia, working to keep one of the sexual assault vics calm until she could be transferred into another therapist's care. Eliot was caught up in the wish that George had decided he didn't want to be alone, that he wanted to be with Stabler. Even though Eliot wasn't going to be able to get away until after Kathy turned him loose. Knowing he had chosen to be with Kathy instead of his weekly night with George was part of the reason Stabler was so angry. Friday night, no matter what, Eliot saved for George. Except this week.

 

The disappointment warred within his chest for ten seconds, then it shattered into a million razored shards. If Olivia was taken hostage...where was George?

 

"Jesus Christ, Stabler, thanks so much, now I'm deaf. You'd better get down here." The Captain was grim voiced, not even the profanity having much heat to it. Eliot wanted to groan.

 

"How bad is it?" Was as fluent a question as Eliot could find as he swung his car around in the street, drove over the directional divider, lights flashing, and headed back towards the precinct. "Olivia was escorting Missy Price to the psychiatric hospital on Seventh. Price's pimp was waiting for them to leave the precinct. He followed them to the hospital. He has them hostage. He and about four of his closest scumbags." There was a pause.

 

"How bad?" Stabler reiterated doggedly as he flashed through late night traffic, making the turn that would take him over to Seventh.

 

"He is a sex offender, Eliot. How bad do you think?" Oh, god. That bad. The mother fucker was going to die. Eliot was going to strangle him with his bare hands. He was going to get into that hospital, posing as a doctor or a janitor or, hell, as a fucking ballerina, and then he was going to pull out his gun and shoot the man right between his eyes.

 

"When?" Stabler asked, running a very red light. "Who else was with her? Was she alone?" She shouldn't have been alone. Another officer should have gone with her. Like him for example if Kathy hadn't called and Benson hadn't told him to go home, she'd find back up she'd said.

 

"Twenty minutes ago." The older man said, purposely vague. There was a pause.

 

"I'm on my way." Stabler said unnecessarily. He was pretty sure Cragen could hear his squealing tires as he took another corner faster than recommended anywhere but at LeMans.

 

"SWAT is already there. And they are in charge. It is not our scene to run. Not any more. They do hostage rescue, Eliot. We do Sex Crimes. Maybe Homicide if you stretch it. Remember that. Don't get into a pissing contest. Don't make me regret calling you."

 

"Munch..." Eliot knew Munch had gone through a hostage negotiations program. A few years back, but from what he'd heard Munch had impressed his instructors.

 

"No, Munch isn't there. He isn't going to be there. You aren't going to call him. This is not our ball of wax. Calling me and me calling you, that is just courtesy. We are spectators. Got it?" A longer, more charged pause. Then, Cragen's voice softened in a terrifying way. "I know you are close to the new psychiatrist, Huang.....I don't want to know how close, " Eliot could almost see the grimace of incomprehension on his Captain's face, "....but you should know he was with Olivia."

 

Eliot felt his ribs turn to stone. He couldn't breathe. He came close to running over the top of a match-box sized Toyota. He jerked the wheel left. "What happened to him?"

 

"He drove in with Olivia and Price. Missy was supposed to meet the counselor at the hospital. George was just along for the trip over, because she wouldn't stop crying, saying her pimp was going to get her."

 

"Looks like she was right. Or else it was part of the plan, getting hold of a cop as a hostage. And Huang was just there. Unlucky." Eliot said, spitting the words out through his teeth. "He's been shot?"

 

"No. The pimp is a known sex offender, seems his homey's are, too. The EMS dispatch, in their infinite wisdom, sent over a unit comprised of two female paramedics. And a second that had one female and one male. The scene commander made the decision that the women wouldn't go in. George offered to go with the male medic into the hospital wing. He took their kits and went in to treat Olivia and Price."

 

"George is inside. A hostage? But unhurt?" Eliot asked, knowing the answer. "Why the fuck did he have to go in? They have doctors and nurses there."

 

"They have psychiatrists and psychiatric nurses, orderlies. Mental health workers. Not medical personnel." Cragen told him wearily. He added, "Not...unhurt. Huang was pistol whipped when he got through the door. They beat him up some, we could see it going down, couldn't stop it. But he's been seen up and moving inside by the snipers."

 

Stabler stopped the ridiculous question on his lips. He was about to ask if Rodriguez was part of the SWAT dispatched to the scene. He knew the answer. Even if the big man was off duty he'd be there. And mad as hell. Eliot found himself morbidly curious, what exactly would Rodriguez be like if he was mad?

 

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

 

It took flashing his badge to three different stone faced officers at the scene for Stabler to get into the staging area. He couldn't see Cragen. And he couldn't see a thing from there into the hospital, but they weren't letting anyone in closer. The SWAT officers were far enough back that they couldn't be overheard, or shot with the handguns that the hostage takers had. They kept an eye on the scene with powerful combat binoculars.

 

Stabler suddenly felt small, a very different feeling for him, surrounded by nothing but giants in black, helmets on, automatic rifles hung around their necks, fingers resting next to, but not on triggers, NVG waiting to be lowered and used when the power was cut to the building. If they got the clearance to go in. Which might mean Olivia would be killed. Olivia and maybe George. At the moment Eliot didn't have any feeling left over for the young woman who was also being held prisoner by her pimp.

 

Stabler fumed. There was literally nothing he could do. It was a waiting game. He sucked when it came to waiting, he was always better when the time came for action. Always had been. From the time he served on active duty in the Marines to now. His cell phone chirped. A dozen heads turned towards him, eyes hidden on some by face shields but he saw censure on the faces not covered.

 

"Turn that phone off." The commander ordered sharply, turning away as he said it. Not waiting to watch the detective obey the order. Eliot strode out of the staging area and flipped the phone open as he approached the side of the building at the edge of the flood lights.

 

It was Kathy. And she was mad, but holding it in the same way she'd learned to all the nights Eliot had been late during their marriage. "Kath, I can't make it." He said. Not saying hello. He couldn't do this, not now. Kathy didn't know about Huang. Eliot wasn't sure he'd ever be able to tell her. Not the whole truth. That he and Huang were friends, sure. But the rest...he didn't think so.

 

"El, god damn it, you agreed. I got a sitter...." She said hotly. But he cut her off. There were news vans crowding up beyond the perimeter, reporters and camera men puring out into the street. Setting up to film what was turning into his own personal disaster. His partner...and George.

 

"Turn on the TV, Kath. That is why I can't come in. I'll call you later." And he hung up. Turned the phone off. Not bothering with vibrate, he just turned it all the way off. Then he spun on his heel intending to get back to the staging area and ran into a wall.

 

Black suit, six inches taller plus high traction boots, at least that much again wider than he was. Heavy-duty bullet-proof vest that thunked when Stabler bounced off of it. Big ass automatic rifle. Eliot knew who it was before he saw those cold as ice brown eyes.

 

"Rodriguez." He ground out. "I'm not in the mood for a pissing contest right now. So will you just fuck off?"

 

"Yeah, I know, me either. No contest, Stabler. Just thought you'd want an update." The big man said, his tone dark and dangerous. Rodriguez was mad, Eliot realized, really mad.

 

"Shoot." Eliot said, not able to give an apology at the moment. He crossed his arms over his chest, unable to resist the impulse to flex inside his jacket. He felt like some high school athlete. Twenty years of weightlifting couldn't get him up to par with the man in front of him. It pissed him off. Especially when he thought of George with the man. He clenched his fists before he could punch the SWAT officer in the face.

 

"George and Benson are still inside. Price, the original victim, is as well. Five perps. Both women have been raped at least once as far as we know. Cragen had to take a break after that happened. He'll be back soon." Rodriguez stretched his strong neck.

 

"One of the men apparently didn't like George as soon as he laid eyes on him. Keeps calling him faggot. He beat the shit out of him. But George is up and around. He can walk. He knows the score and is doing his best to stay away from the guy who hit him. The paramedic who went in with George hasn't been touched. He is trying to keep himself between George and the asshole who beat him. It seems to be working."

 

Rodriguez paused his head tilting as he listened to a message coming across his ear mic, too low for Stabler to hear. Then as if he'd hadn't paused at all, he started talking again, not explaining the interruption. Stabler ground his teeth, he hated being on the outside. It was driving him crazy.

 

"Be ready if you decide to sneak a look. His face is messed up. His lip is cut, his cheeks and chin are swollen, he is bloody. The medic tried to clean him up but that seemed to set the perp off again so..." The wide shoulders shrugged. "He stopped. Probably the smart thing to do. George is keeping his head down. He is doing all the right things." Repeating himself, Rodriguez's eyes transmitted Stabler's own thoughts. Doing the right things didn't mean George would make it out alive.

 

George had caught the singular attention of one of the perps inside. One of the hostage-takers had focused on him as his primary target. Given the chance, the man would shoot Huang first. Before anyone else in the room. Before he shot anyone coming into the room. Primary targets rarely survived. Eliot thought he was going to puke. He shoved the feeling down.

 

"Are you going in?" Eliot asked, rage filling him. "I need to go in." He wanted to kill the man who was a threat to George. Who had dared to lay hands on him. He wanted the man dead, now.

 

Rodriguez looked down at him, crowding closer, his voice dropping even lower. He shook his head. "Uh-uh. Look, I know how you feel. But this is not the time to learn hostage rescue. Don't tell me you've been in combat, any of that shit. I already know that. Doesn't mean you can do this. Doesn't mean you should. Stay out here, out of it. In there isn't your place, I promise you."

 

"My partner and...my...lover are in there." Eliot manged to say the last out loud though he thought it was going to get stuck in his throat. Even knowing the man in front of him was also gay at least as far as George Huang was considered, Eliot barely got the words out. Rodriguez's eyes flared ominously. Eliot saw his teeth.

 

"Right now," the larger, younger man said, looking down into the detective's eyes. "I don't need to hear that. I don't want to hear it. Don't tell me, again." The grip on the gun he held was white-knuckled.

 

They stood together for a minute, silent, listening to the low murmur of voices of men a dozen feet away, the more distant hum of shouted questions from down the block. Then Rodriguez seemed to relax. He drew in a breath, deep but nearly noiseless.

 

"I'll get you a flack vest." He said, and he walked away.


End file.
